The roads weave through
misplaced small towns on hillsides
half of them only ghosts inhabitants
Plume of dust from the pickup
a greeting that settles
on the memory of what
might have been
The Ford dealership opened
not long before the ore played out
and everyone moved away
Having grown up there
a view across the valley
to the Chiricahua Mountains
Ran away when I was five
rode my Shetland pony Bucky
all the way to Turkey Creek
before the old Apache
tacked me down and took me home
Vowed I would try again
but never did
This is classic you Z.